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Chasing Zen 'round Scotland
LOCH LOMOND, Scotland -- All together now, in our best Thom Yorke, "For a minute there I lost myseeeeelf." Well, what can I say? After eight months of grinding I decided to loosen the On Tour shackles for a week or two following the PGA Championship, and here it is October already, and I'm finally strapping it on again. Don't despair, dear reader, you've been on my mind throughout this sabbatical. Every time I've rattled in a birdie putt over the last six weeks I've made a mental note to recount the heroics in excruciating detail. So let's get started. The Solheim Cup began Friday, and next week I'll weigh in with a probing, erudite analysis, but let's be honest -- the reason I begged for this assignment was so I could come over early and tour the linksland, "research" that might be beneficial in covering future British Opens. What transpired was a five-rounds-in-three-days bender across the auld sod of Turnberry, Prestwick, and Royal Troon, played in a hurricane with a series of caddies who had 100-proof breath and the manner of a disappointed parent. The whole adventure began Tuesday afternoon. I flew overnight into Glasgow and then made the hour-long drive to the first tee of the Arran course, the red-headed stepchild of the Turnberry family (the Ailsa course, "the Pebble Beach of Scotland," is where the three Open Championships have been played). The Arran is currently undergoing a major facelift, including the addition of four new seaside holes (I got a tour -- they are going to be breathtaking). Since it is currently playing as a nine-holer, I thought the Arran would be a perfect reintroduction to the 150-yard bump-and-run, and a nice relaxing way to stave off jet lag. As soon as I stepped out of my rental buggy, I knew I was in trouble. An icy wind nearly knocked me clear into Ireland. The boys in the pro shop estimated it was blowing 40 mph. "Just a wee breeze," they called it. By the time I had devoured four ham-and-cheese toasties in the swank clubhouse it was howling even harder, and the skies were darkening. I briefly thought about bagging the round, but didn't want to be regarded as a sissyboy Yank. On the first hole, a 530-yard, par-5 playing dead downwind, I was in the gorse over the green with a driver and a five-iron. By the third hole a hard rain had begun to fall, which was perfect, since I had left my hat and waterproof pants in the car. On the fifth hole, an itty-bitty par-4 of 297 yards playing into the teeth of the gale, I careered with both my driver and three-wood and barely nudged my ball to the front fringe. By now it was raining sideways, and it was a struggle merely to walk. My eyes began to tear. Standing on the 6th tee I was ready to head in when I spied a pair of greenskeepers working nearby. I was the only person on the course, and they looked at me with something approaching approval. Thus inspired, I muddled through, getting up and down for the best 8 of my life at the 8th hole, a brutal par-4 of some 45O yards. When I finally made it back to the pro shop I looked like a drowned rat, and the boys in the shop simply shook their heads and laughed. I went back to my room and slept for 13 hours. The next morning, under blue skies, I teed it up for a Zen round by myself at the Ailsa. Set down among the dunes, the Ailsa doesn't quite have the unrelenting views of Pebble, but it is quite simply one of the most enjoyable courses I've ever played. It has none of the quirks of so many of the Scottish seaside links. There are very few blind shots, no obscene carries over the dunes. The sweeping holes are utterly natural in their look, and gorgeously framed by the dunes. Showing me around was a caddie named Andy, who was 58 years old -- and in his 48th year packing at the Ailsa. He never bothered to give me yardages, merely handing me clubs. At one point I asked, "Is it a hard seven, or a soft?" "Just the true value of the club, sir." When we started the round the wind had slacked off considerably from the day before. It was only a steady 30 mph or so. "Just a wee breeze," as Andy called it. The last eight holes at Turnberry are straight into the wind, and by the time we got there it was blowing hard. I hit driver, three-wood on every par-4, and a couple of times, driver, three-wood, four-iron (and one time driver, three-wood, four-iron, wedge, wedge ... but nevermind). At 16 I absolutely smashed a drive. "Ye got all of that one, sir," Andy enthused. "It must've gone 150 yards." I scarfed a half dozen ham-and-cheese toasties during the 45-minute drive to Prestwick, and was cheered to find that I was heading straight into a driving rainstorm. It was pouring by the time I arrived at Prestwick's modest clubhouse. I made the mistake of saying to my caddie, again named Andy, that back in California I had never in my life played in conditions like these, and he grunted, "Ay, for f---- sake, it's just a wee bit of rain. Ye've got an easy life, don't ya?" The first hole at Prestwick is so quintessentially Scotland -- it's a terrible, fantastic hole, short, tight, blind and weird. There is an old rock wall running the length of the right side, and an enormous mound pinching the landing area at 180 yards to a width of about 10 paces. I bunted a five-iron, then punched a wedge to within 15 feet of a pin I couldn't even see. It seemed to rain a little harder at each hole we played, and oddly enough I played better and better. I parred the 2nd hole, and playing the par-five 3rd, nearly holed a 50-yard, bumped eight-iron over two mounds and across three swales. After another par at 4 I was one under, and waiting to see Noah float by. "I'm Scottish, so I'm used to a wee bit of rain," Andy said. "But this is a bit excessive." We hid in a weather shelter for the better part of 15 minutes, Andy smoking Marlboros, me trembling about the impending tee shot at number 5, the famous Himalayas hole, a par-3 with a blind green tucked behind a series of sand dunes that rise some 100 feet toward the heavens. Naturally, I buried my ball in the middle of the mount, and took a double. Rally over ... though I did manage to turn in 39. My good play was due in part to the mellow environment. I've rarely felt more relaxed on a golf course, a huge upset given that Prestwick -- which we all know was the site of the first Open Championship 1,000 years ago -- is considered one of the most exclusive clubs in Scotland. How odd, then, to see so many dogs running around the course. According to Andy, there used to be a sign in front of the clubhouse that read NO DOGS OR WOMEN ALLOWED. In recent years the club has been compelled to allow women access to the course -- though there are no women's tees -- and so, in an act of protest, the stodgy male members now bring their yappy little dogs along for the round. I found this hilarious. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I came home like a champ, in 47. Andy was sympathetic as my game collapsed. Facing a downhill 20-footer with six feet of break I never gave the putt enough juice to get it on line, and the ball was no more off my putter face than Andy barked, "That's rubbish." When my power fade turned into a banana slice on the 15th tee and then again on 16, he grunted, "I'm afraid I've seen that before." From Prestwick I made the very short drive to the town of Troon, and the Marine Highland Hotel, which sits right on the edge of the Championship Course's 18th hole. From the window of my room I watched a golden sunset, magically illuminating every hump and hollow of the course. I had mixed expectations for Royal Troon. Of the courses in the championship rota, I had always heard it was the least interesting. Then again, Prestwick is often disparaged as short and funky, and I loved it, so I was willing to keep an open mind. Which I needed during a wild round. I honored Tiger by taking a triple bogey at the Postage Stamp, and roused the memory of Justin Leonard with a 25-footer for par at the Railway Hole. On the par-3 17th, 210 yards from the back tees playing into yet another roaring wind, I hit a low screaming driver to eight feet. It was a day of quality, and quantity. In the end, I thought Royal Troon was a terrific test of golf. The first six holes are a little flat and dull, and the greens have little of the memorable vertigo-inducing mounding so typical of Scotland, but the back nine is an absolute back breaker, and the sweeping views are unsurpassed. Bonus points for a membership and staff as warm and welcoming as could be imagined. Troon also offers one of the best deals in golf -- for 125 pounds you get two rounds of golf and a sumptuous buffet lunch. After gorging myself in the elegant clubhouse, I walked off lunch on the Portland course, a short, sporty 18-hole layout that was a welcome change of pace after the arse-kicking I had been taking. I putted out my 81st hole under another Technicolor sunset, drove into Glasgow, and collapsed into a dreamless sleep. After three days like these, what's left to dream about? Sports Illustrated golf writer Alan Shipnuck takes you On Tour at
golfplus.cnnsi.com. Click here to send Alan a question or a nice, friendly
comment.
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